


if you fall, hold my hand

by dumbkili



Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon)
Genre: Awkwardness, Cuddling, F/M, First Kiss, greg being a dorky little brother, hand holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 14:34:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2696501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dumbkili/pseuds/dumbkili
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Fine. I guess we should both sleep on the bed,” Beatrice said. The words left her mouth before she could think, but she wasn’t about to take them back now that they were out there.<br/>“I- What?! Did you seriously- Beatrice. It’s. It’s a twin bed we can’t- I mean. What?” Wirt’s face was bright red, and he seemed to have developed an allergy to looking Beatrice in the eye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if you fall, hold my hand

Her parents were mad. Furious. Angry bordering on homicidal. It was definitely the worst fight they had ever had. And considering that Beatrice had once turned them all into bluebirds, that was saying something. All she had done was tell them that Wirt had invited her over to his and Greg’s house for dinner that night, and things had sort of snowballed from there. There was yelling, there was crying, there was a grounding, and there was an order: Stop going over the wall. It had finally gotten to be too much. Their daughter was spending more time away from them than with them. It didn’t help that she had told them that in Wirt’s world, it was more than a hundred years in the future, which meant that Beatrice and her family were, for all intents and purposes, dead. Now she wasn’t just being antisocial; she was, in their eyes, violating the laws of nature.

  
Beatrice didn’t feel dead. She didn’t remember dying. She had a heartbeat. She breathed. In her eyes, the Unknown wasn’t death, just as it wasn’t life- it was a space that existed in between life and death. An eternal and unbreakable middle ground. And even if they all were dead, even if she and her family were rotting in some tomb right now, what did that matter? She wasn’t going to give up seeing Wirt and Greg, or seeing movies, or eating candy bars, which was why she had devised a plan.  
It was late at night, but the overturned half moon provided just enough light to see by. Beatrice had been sitting awake in the dark for hours, waiting, but now it was time. As silently and quickly as she could, she got dressed, pulling on a stolen pair of trousers and a sweater. A long dress would just get in the way. She left her hair hanging down. It was too dark to pull it up correctly, anyway. Sneaking out of a house with fifteen other people in it was hard, but she managed. She had done it before, to feel rebellious or to go night fishing with a couple of her siblings.

  
The night air was warm. It was spring, and the light of the moon lit up flowers and green-leaved trees. Even in a place of death, there could at least be parodies of life. She walked for a long time. It wasn’t that far, but the night landscape was confusing and she went slowly so as not to lose her way. Eventually, she arrived at the Crossing. It was a fancy name that Wirt had come up with; he said there should be a proper name for such an important place. Beatrice disagreed. She didn’t think it deserved any sort of name. If you didn’t know what it was, the Crossing didn’t look very important. It was just a stone wall in the middle of the woods. It was about ten feet long and ten feet high. If you walked around it, you just ended up looking at the wall from a different angle. If you climbed over it… well. Then you would find yourself someplace else entirely. Beatrice often used it to visit Wirt and Greg on their side. They never came over to hers. Wouldn’t or couldn’t, she didn’t know. She had never asked.

  
The great thing about climbing the same wall multiple times every week for months on end, Beatrice mused, groping around to feel at the bricks in the dark, was that you got really good at it. You knew all the right places to wedge your foot, and which stones were too slippery with moss to put your foot on, and just the right angle at which to swing your foot over the top. Beatrice might have once protested the whole taxing exercise, but being stuck as a bird for any length of time really teaches you about the joys of having and using your arms and hands. Any bruise or discomfort was immensely preferable to not having thumbs. Plus, her destination usually made it all worth it.

  
The other world was incredible. Color photographs, moving pictures, phones, computers, cars. Everything was bigger and better than what she had known in her old life. Even the clothes were different. They were machine sewed, with neat hems and small, nearly invisible stitches that even her mother could never accomplish by hand. Wirt had a lot of cool clothes like that. Pants, shirts, trousers, jackets, sweaters. He had them all, and they were all unique and well made and store bought. Beatrice herself only had one store bought dress at home. It was her nicest one, and only for very special occasions. Her mother had bought it for her at the general store six months before the whole bluebird debacle, for twenty dollars. It was dowdy and cheap beside the clothes in this new world. Once Beatrice saw how superior the clothes were on that side of the wall, she made it her mission to get as many as possible. She usually snagged a shirt or a pair of jeans or something when she went over to Wirt’s. He never noticed.

  
Wirt’s house was about a half an hour’s walk from the graveyard. The streets were almost deserted; a few older teenagers were hanging around the 24 hour convenience store, but that was standard. She made it to Wirt’s house right on time. All the lights were off, and his bedroom window was open, just as she had expected. The drain pipe that ran down the side of the house passed right by his bedroom window, and it was this she used to climb up into the room. It was a bit of a struggle, but she had recently become pretty good at scaling vertical surfaces, and after a few minutes she was hauling herself over the sill.  
It was dark, and the bed itself was deep in shadow. She stepped cautiously into the room, steps slow and deliberate. She kept her eyes on the bed, making sure that Wirt didn’t wake up. She just had to get through the room and crash on the couch downstairs. She would leave before anybody knew she was there, hang around town for a few hours, and show up that night for dinner like she had been invited to. She moved further into the room, stepping into the light of the (right-side up) half moon that streamed in through the window. There was a quiet gasp from the darkest corner of the room, and Wirt stepped forward, holding a table lamp and sporting some truly incredible bedhead.

  
“Beatrice?!”

  
“...Shit.”

\------------------------------------------------

Wirt couldn't sleep. It was 1:30 A.M. on a Saturday, Beatrice was coming over for dinner that night, and he couldn’t sleep. He was too anxious; this was the first time he had actively invited Beatrice to his house- mostly she just showed up or they met somewhere else. His mom and stepdad had yet to meet her officially. They had seen her in passing, they knew that she existed, but they didn’t actually know her. Wirt and Beatrice had decided that this dinner was where they were going to explain everything- the Unknown, the Beast, the bluebirds, everything. He was so nervous that he just could not sleep. He had tried everything. Counting sheep, drinking milk, reading a book. Nothing had helped. He had just resigned himself to pulling an insomniatic all-nighter and sneaking some coffee in the morning when he heard something outside his window. A moving something. A large something. It sounded too big to be a bird or a raccoon or even an opossum. The thought crossed his mind that the something might be a someone, and his heart leapt into his throat. The only thing he could conceivably use as a weapon was the lamp on his nightstand, so he hastily fumbled with the cord before jumping out of bed and holding it in trembling hands. The sound came again. And again. Someone was climbing the drainpipe that ran up the side of his house, right next to his window.

  
The shadow of a person appeared in the window. First a hand, then an arm, followed by the silhouette of a head and torso as the person pulled themselves into the room. Wirt stepped back further into the shadows and prayed they wouldn't see him. His grip on the lamp tightened.  
The person was now fully inside Wirt's bedroom. Their hair was long, and they were very tall- taller than Wirt. They slowly stepped further into the room, obviously trying to keep their footsteps as silent as possible. Wirt held his breath. His hands were shaking and he felt sick. How was he supposed to deal with a possibly armed intruder in the middle of the night? The person moved cautiously. Their head was angled slightly towards the bed, as if checking that it’s occupant hadn’t woken up. In the darkness of the bedroom, it was impossible to tell if the rumpled blankets contained a person or not. One more step, and an old-fashioned and scuffed boot appeared in the beam of moonlight, followed by the rest of the body- much too short modern jeans, a lumpy gray sweater, long red hair… Wirt gasped and stepped forward.

  
“Beatrice?!”

  
She whipped her head around, shocked, and stepped back a little. “...Shit.”

  
Wirt lowered the lamp. “What are you doing here?” He moved a little closer. “Are you okay?”

  
“Yeah, I mean, no, I mean it’s just… I just… Can I stay here tonight?” Her hair, loose for the first time in Wirt’s memory, hid her face, but her voice shook slightly. Her hands twisted in the sleeves of her sweater. She took a breath. “I had a fight with my parents.”

  
“About what?” Beatrice’s parent’s didn’t seem like the type to kick their daughter out of their home. Wirt couldn’t imagine what sort of topic could force Beatrice to seek shelter with him at one thirty in the morning.

  
“About you.” She looked uncomfortable, glancing down and scuffing the toe of her shoe in the floor. “They, uh. They don’t like that I’m spending so much time over here. They think it’s unnatural to, um,” She paused to make a gesture that almost look like the act of climbing a ladder, “You know. Go over.”

  
“Oh.” He tugged at the hem of his shirt. “Do you… What I mean to say is… Yeah. You can sleep here. If you want. I mean, I don’t wanna pressure you or anything like you can totally- I mean, it’s your choice-”

  
“Wirt,” Beatrice interjected, “Do you seriously think I would walk for two hours in the dark, climb over a wall, and hoist myself into your second story window to tell you that I’m going to sleep on the street tonight?” Wirt blushed but didn’t reply. She rolled her eyes. "Can I have some pajamas? It's not exactly comfortable to sleep in jeans." Beatrice blushed a little, hoping that Wirt wouldn't notice that the jeans in question were, in fact, his.

"Oh!" Wirt exclaimed, turning to his dresser and rooting around. "Uh, here. Some, um. Old sweatpants. And a t-shirt. I don't really wear them." Beatrice looked pointedly at his neatly buttoned-up pajamas, still with the creases from having been ironed and folded.

  
"...Obviously." She gathered up the offered clothes, toed off her shoes, ducked out of the bedroom and silently padded into the bathroom down the hall. She returned a couple minutes later, depositing her bundle of clothes on Wirt's desk chair.

  
“Anyway. Thanks for understanding. I’ll just, uh. I’ll go sleep on the couch.” She started towards the door. Wirt nodded and almost let her go, but stopped her with a hand on her arm once he realized what was wrong with that plan.

  
“Wait, no. My stepdad goes jogging every day at, like, 5 in the morning. He’s gonna see you if you sleep down there,” Wirt thought for a second. “You can… uh…. oh. You can sleep in my bed. I’ll sleep on the floor or something.”

  
Beatrice shook her head. “No way. I’m not going to make you sleep on the floor of your own bedroom. I’ll sleep on the floor, it doesn’t matter to me.”

  
Now it was Wirt’s turn to protest. “No, seriously, Beatrice. You’re- You’re a guest, you should take the bed. Really. I- Come on.”

  
Beatrice folded her arms, looking as intimidating as a 5’7” teenage girl in borrowed pajamas can look (that is to say, very), and smiled, sensing a challenge. “I guess we’re both sleeping on the floor.”

  
“That’s ridiculous. Why would we both sleep on the floor? The bed’s perfectly fine, you should- you should use it. You’re not making any sense.” Wirt didn't understand how they had gone from just talking to this weird brand of arguing that didn't feel angry. It felt more like... flirting. Which was ridiculous, of course, because Beatrice could not be flirting with him. Obviously, he was imagining things. Or projecting, or whatever. He crossed his arms too, yet somehow failed to achieve the same scare factor that Beatrice wielded.

  
“Fine. I guess we should both sleep on the bed,” Beatrice said. The words left her mouth before she could think, but she wasn’t about to take them back now that they were out there.

  
“I- What?! Did you seriously- Beatrice. It’s. It’s a twin bed we can’t- I mean. What?” Wirt’s face was bright red, and he seemed to have developed an allergy to looking Beatrice in the eye.

  
Beatrice grinned, victorious, and said, “Well then, I guess I’ll just have to sleep on the floor.”

  
Wirt frowned, realizing the trap she had put him in. In hindsight, he should have just conceded right there, but his stubborn streak just wouldn't let him quit. He took a deep breath and said, "Fine. Let's just both sleep in the bed."

  
Beatrice blinked, surprised, but she wasn't about to back down either. "Fine."

  
"Fine!" Wirt's voice cracked a little. She pretended not to notice.

  
There was a few seconds of awkward silence before they both moved towards the bed at the same time. Beatrice plopped down on the right side, and Wirt climbed in on the left. He tucked into the covers, and she followed his lead. Their feet brushed, and Wirt made a sound that was completely normally pitched and definitely not a squeak.

  
"Your feet are really cold!"

  
"Shut up, or I'll rub them on your face."

  
They lay there, flat on their backs, side by side, with arms and legs pressed together, for a few minutes. It was dead silent. Wirt's nose itched, but he was too nervous to move to scratch it. Beatrice was the one who broke first.

 

"Wirt?"

  
"...Yeah?"

  
"Can we stop pretending we're gonna die if we touch each other any more than this? It's really uncomfortable to just, like. Lie here." She winced. That had sounded a lot more suggestive than she had intended.

  
"Oh. Uh. Okay?" Wirt tried not to read anything into that. It was a really uncomfortable position. "What do you want to do instead?"

  
"Okay. So, um. Turn on your side. No, no, your other side. Right, okay, lemme just-"

  
Beatrice continued to maneuver them for a little bit, and by the end of it, Wirt was lying on his right side with Beatrice tucked up against his back, her left arm lying on his waist. It was a lot more comfortable, and he suddenly realized how tired he was. He was just drifting off to sleep when realization struck.

  
"Hang on. Beatrice. Am I the little spoon here?"

  
She pinched his stomach, ignoring his protest. "Go to sleep, Wirt."

  
He did, with much muttering.

  
Beatrice stayed awake for a while longer. She felt strange. It wasn't a bad strange, but it was strange all the same. Why had she gone to Wirt for help? Lorna's new (not wrecked and abandoned) house was closer, or even the Woodsman's, all things considered. It made no sense to cross worlds just because she needed some company and time away from her parents, and yet that's exactly what she had done.

  
Why did she prefer Wirt above all the other people she knew? It required a bit of thought, but not as much as she had been expecting. Wirt was funny, in a dry, sarcastic kind of way. He could make her laugh just by frowning at the right time or by sighing. He was smart. He knew about a lot of cool things, like music and architecture and poetry. He didn't abandon her after the whole "whoops, I may have been trading you into a life of servitude for a pair of scissors" thing. He actually seemed to enjoy her company. He was her friend. Probably her best one. And... She really liked him.

  
She liked him in the way that made her heart beat fast and her mind short out. She liked his stupid hair and his stuttering and the way he smelled. She wouldn't call it love, not yet, but something was definitely there. She fell asleep still pondering it all, with her leg hooked over Wirt's and her fingers tangled in his hair.

  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Wirt woke up to the discovery that Beatrice was, apparently, an intense cuddler. He had rolled onto his back in the night, and somehow she had snaked both her arms around his chest. One of her legs was slung over both of his, and her face was pressed into the crook of his neck. He could feel her breathing, little puffs of air hitting his skin regularly as she exhaled.

  
He lay there for a few minutes, winding his hand unconsciously through her long, loose hair. She would put a stop to all this contact once she woke up, but for now, he could just enjoy it. She shifted a little, making a small, sleepy sound, and he froze, but relaxed once he realized she wasn't awake.

  
He sighed. He really had to get a reign on this crush. He shouldn't have let Beatrice sleep in his bed (much less with him in it) or wear his clothes, or cuddle up to him and make quiet snuffling sounds into his neck as she slept. He shouldn't have done any of it, because after this ended, after she and her parents made up and she went back home, he was still going to have to pretend that he didn't think about her when she wasn't around, that he didn't have a notebook full of failed poetry about and for her. This night didn't mean anything. It didn't change anything. He should probably stop letting this go on before he did something really stupid.

  
He tried to extricate himself from her grasp, but she murmured again and held on tighter. He would have to wake her up if he wanted to get out of bed. He was working up the courage to nudge her awake when Greg barged in, complete with messy hair and Jason the frog (who, strangely, seemed to have grape jelly smeared on his stomach).

  
"Hi Wirt! Its eleven o'clock and Jason and I had breakfast twice already! Why aren't you awa- whooooooaaah. Is that Beatrice?" Greg had turned six last month, but that didn't stop him from being an inquisitive motormouth when he wanted to be.

 

Wirt huffed out a sigh. “Yeah. It’s Beatrice. But you gotta really quiet, okay, because she’s still asleep.”

  
“Oh! Okay!” Greg lowered his voice to a comical whisper. “Is this better?” Wirt nodded. “Okay, good. Hey, Wirt?”

  
“Yeah?”

  
“Why is Beatrice here? Are you guys doing that… teenage stuff?”

  
Wirt blushed and managed to stammer out, “Um, what? Greg, what’re you… what’re you talking about?”

  
“You know… the stuff. Like. Kissing. On the cheek and everything,” Greg said, making a face. “Janet at school says her sister does it with her girlfriend ALL the time and it’s REALLY gross.”

  
“Oh, that. Yeah, no, Beatrice and I, uh. We don’t do that. We’re just friends, Greg,” Wirt said, relieved.

  
“Really?” Greg asked, his voice unconsciously rising in volume with every word, “‘Cuz I saw you writing in the notebook the other day and there were a lot of things crossed out in it but I definitely saw “for Beatrice” on it and it was poetry, right Wirt? You were writing poetry for Beatrice but you only do that for people you really like, like Sara, right Wi-”

  
Beatrice made a noise and opened her eyes a little. “Wha- Wirt. Wass’e talking about?”

  
Wirt jumped, panicking. “Greg! Shh!”

  
“No, you shh!”

  
“Shh!”

 

“Shh!!”

  
“Guys,” Beatrice nearly yelled, “What are you arguing about?!”

  
“Well,” said Greg, “I was just sayin’ how Wirt writes poetry for you sometimes but he never gives it to you and ALSO I was asking if you guys were kissing in here or something because it’s eleven o’clock and Mom went to pilates and Dad’s out runnin’ errands so Wirt has to be awake to make sure I don’t choke when I eat-” He was cut off by Wirt untangling himself from the covers and launching himself at Greg in a frenzy of embarrassment.

  
“He doesn’t mean it! I have no idea what he’s talking about. He watches too much T.V. He gets all kinds of wacky ideas, haha! Isn’t he funny,” Wirt babbled, struggling to pin down Greg as he squirmed.

  
“What’s the wacky idea?” Beatrice asked, holding back a grin, “The us kissing part or the part where Greg chokes if you’re not awake?”

  
“Both! Both are crazy! I- Okay. Let’s. Let’s just get some breakfast, okay?” Wirt stuttered, letting Greg go.

  
“Hurray! Third breakfast! Let’s go, Lord Funderberker!” Greg ran out of the room, holding the frog under one arm. It croaked.

  
“Hey… Wirt?” Beatrice began, getting out of bed.

  
“No, no, okay, I’m sorry, but. Can we hold off on whatever conversation this is going to be until after I’ve eaten something?” Wirt said, standing up and moving towards the door before something caught his eye. “Wait. Bea. Is this… my sweater? Were you wearing my clothes last night?” He untangled the pile sitting on his chair. Beatrice ran over and snatched them back.

  
“Hm. You know what. We’ll talk about that after breakfast too. If you get to avoid topics, so do I,” she said, throwing the bundle back down. He shrugged.

  
“Fair enough. Do you want eggs?” Wirt was pretty proud of the way his voice remained steady, and how his hands barely shook, even though he felt like he was on the verge of an anxiety attack. He made scrambled eggs for all of them (even his brother, who, by the looks of it, had already demolished half the pantry), and set Greg up with some cartoons before rejoining Beatrice in the kitchen. She was leaning on the counter, finishing her food. Her hair was still down, and the way the sunlight streamed in and caught it made her look almost ethereal. He could write (and had written) poems about the way her hair looked, how it framed her face, how it’s color was vibrant and beautiful and- _Get a grip Wirt. She’s here to let you down gently, not listen to you recite._

  
“So… hey. Bea. What did you uh. What did you wanna talk to me about?”

  
She looked up, and put down her fork. “Oh. Right. We were gonna talk about. Stuff.”

  
“Y-yeah,” He said, nervously. “Stuff. Right.”

  
Beatrice shifted her weight awkwardly, fiddling with the hem of her borrowed shirt. “Wirt… you know I like you, right? You’re probably my best friend, like, ever, okay.”

  
Wirt swallowed. Here it was. The polite rejection. After this would come a couple weeks of awkward attempts at normalcy followed by a quiet yet final falling out, and that would be the end. She’d never want to talk to him again. It was all over and she’d hate him and they’d never get to have dinner with his parents, and when his parents asked him where Beatrice was he’d have to say, “Oh, sorry, Mom and Phil, Beatrice isn’t my friend anymore, I ruined it with unwelcome romantic advances. Guess dinner’s off, haha.” He’d messed everything up and-

  
“Wirt? ...Wirt? Are you hearing anything I’m saying right now?” Beatrice’s voice filtered down through the waves of anxiety and panic that were threatening to overwhelm him. He realized he was grabbed the edge of the counter so hard his knuckles were white, and he didn’t even want to know what his face looked like. He tried to pull himself together.

  
“Um. What? Sorry I. I was. Um. Sorry, repeat that last part?” He forced out, risking a glance at Beatrice’s face. She didn’t look angry at him, just very concerned.  
“I was just saying how I really don’t mind if you- Wirt, seriously. Are you okay? You look like you’re about to throw up or pass out. Or both,” Beatrice said, stepping a little closer.

  
“No, no, I’m fine, seriously. Keep talking,” Wirt insisted, taking a deep breath. He could handle this.

  
“Okay,” Beatrice said looking doubtful but continuing anyway. “I just… ugh. I don’t know. I’m going about this all wrong but, um. Wirt. I really, really like you. As in. Romantically. Um…” She trailed off, searching his face for a reaction. “Wirt? Oh _come on_. I did _not_ just pour my heart out to you for you to just check out again!”

 

Wirt coughed and tried to speak, but his voiced cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again. “What? You like me?”

  
Beatrice felt her stomach drop. “Oh my god. I read this whole thing wrong, didn’t I. Oh my god, I’m. Holy crap. I’ll just. I’ll just go now-” She began to brush past Wirt, who was standing in the doorway to the hall.

  
“Beatrice, wait!” She stopped, reluctantly.

  
“What?”

  
“You. Um. You didn’t misread anything. Greg was, uh. Greg was telling the truth.” Wirt took a deep breath, twisting his hands in the sleeves of the pajamas he was still wearing. “Um. I… like you too. In that. In that way.” He winced. Really smooth, Wirt.

  
Beatrice froze for a second, staring at him. There was a tense moment before her face broke into one of the biggest smiles he had ever seen on her.

  
“Oh my god Wirt, don’t scare me like that again! Jiminy Cricket, I was so worried,” she laughed. “See? Talking about stuff wasn’t that bad.”

  
“Ha, yeah,” Wirt said, feeling himself begin to smile as well. And suddenly, for no reason, they were both laughing. They were two teenagers in old pajamas, standing in a kitchen at noon, with messy hair and no shoes on. They were 15, they were awkward, they were usually slightly confused, and they were experiencing the closest thing to love that two such people could feel. They were scared, and two hearts were beating too fast, and four hands were shaking uncontrollably, but they were happy, too.  
Slowly, their laughter faded out. Greg’s cartoons filtered in from the living room, but that was the only sound. Wirt coughed a little.

  
“Beatrice? You’re. Uh. You’re standing pretty close to, uh. To me.”

  
“Yeah,” She answered absently, leaning further towards him slightly. “Do you want me to move?” Her hand brushed his and, without thinking, he held it. They were both blushing.

  
“No,” he said, quietly. “This is fine.”

  
Afterwards, neither of them could agree on who started the kiss. Beatrice swore it was her, because she was already thinking of doing it anyway, but Wirt said it must have been him for the same reason. However, there were some things that both of them knew to be true. The kiss was soft. It was gentle. It was a little off-center, but that was okay. Beatrice was leaning down, and Wirt had to tilt his head back. One of her hands was gripping the collar of his shirt, and one of his was winding through her hair. They could have happily stayed like that for the rest of time, but, as usual, Greg broke the mood.

  
“Hey what’re you-” He began, walking out of the living room, and Beatrice and Wirt jumped apart as if electrocuted. Greg looked between the two of them, narrowing his eyes. “Wait a second. You tricked me, Wirt! You and Beatrice were doing teenage stuff and you said you weren’t!”

  
“Ugh, Greg,” Wirt sighed, covering his eyes with the hand that wasn’t still holding Beatrice’s. “Can’t you just, like, go watch some more Spongebob or something?”

  
“Me an’ Jason wanted to get some snacks. You can’t watch Spongebob without snacks,” Greg said, as if it were obvious.

  
Beatrice laughed a little, giddy with how happy she was. “Greg, haven’t you had breakfast three times already today?”

  
“Beatrice,” Greg replied seriously, shifting his grip on the frog, “A breakfast is not a snack. I have had no snacks today and I need snacks to watch Spongebob.”

  
“Fine, Greg, I’ll get you some snacks,” Wirt said, finally letting go of Beatrice’s hand and moving to the pantry. “Goldfish or fruit gummies?”

  
“Popsicles!”

  
“Greg, I’m not giving you a popsicle to eat as a snack in the living room. Our couch is white.”

  
Greg pouted. “I bet Beatrice will let me have a popsicle.” He turned to her. “Beatrice, can I have a popsicle?”

  
Beatrice grinned, and said, “Well, if you’re really careful with it…”

  
Wirt gasped. “Bea, come on. Don’t encourage him.”

  
“I’m just playing devil’s advocate here, Wirt,” she laughed, leaning up against the counter.

  
“He’s gonna be asking for popsicles for the rest of the day. I hope you’re happy.”

  
Beatrice wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her head on his shoulder. “I am.”

  
And so it went. Nothing in life is ever easy, but sometimes things don’t have to be that hard. This was one of those times.

**Author's Note:**

> this was written for daveyjackobs on tumblr they are very cool and fun and you should check them out
> 
> my tumblr is dumbkili.tumblr.com
> 
> title is from the song "bottom of the river" by delta rae it is the ultimate otgw-applicable song i heartily recommend it


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